#al anon

Today is my mother’s birthday.

She was born 69 years ago but only alive for 63 of them.

When she got drunk, she would say revolting things.

She would throw the remote control at the back of my head.

She would tell me I broke my father’s heart.

She would become vile.

Maybe she was vile.

Out of those 63 years she was flesh without a soul for 12.

When my father died,

She ran out of hope.

When my father died,

She gave up on being a normal person

Who had anything but grief

Grief that filled her up

Grief that turned her inside out

Grief that sheared away the warm part of her heart.

I did not grieve the same way she did.

And she hated me for it.

She thought I was a traitor.

She thought I was an idiot.

She thought I was nothing like her.

She would have preferred to see me also

Destroyed.

She was dead for 1 year before I cried.

Even when I heard her stop breathing in the hospice room.

I couldn’t feel anything but relief.

For her.

For me.

I have only a few artifacts from her.

I have her penny loafers.

I wore them yesterday.

I always think they’ll give me some insight.
Tell me some secret.

Pinch my toes.

Or cut my ankles.

The same way.

So I could finally feel some pain

The same way

She did.